The Bucharest Legacy: The Rise of the Oligarchs

By William Maz

Literary Titan Award Winner

Summer 2023 Pencraft Best Book Award Winner

CIA agent Bill Hefflin is back in Bucharest—immersed in a cauldron of spies and crooked politicians

The CIA is rocked to its core when a KGB defector divulges that there is a KGB mole inside the Agency. They learn that the mole's handler is a KGB agent known as Boris. CIA analyst Bill Hefflin recognizes that name—Boris is the code name of Hefflin's longtime KGB asset. If the defector is correct, Hefflin realizes Boris must be a triple agent, and his supposed mole has been passing false intel to Hefflin and the CIA. What's more, this makes Hefflin the prime suspect as the KGB mole inside the Agency.

Hefflin is given a chance to prove his innocence by returning to his city of birth, Bucharest, Romania, to find Boris and track down the identity of the mole. It's been three years since the bloody revolution, and what he finds is a cauldron of spies, crooked politicians, and a country controlled by the underground and the new oligarchs, all of whom want to find Boris. But Hefflin has a secret that no one else knows—Boris has been dead for over a year.

Perfect for fans of John le CarrÉ and Brad Thor

While the novels in the Bill Hefflin Spy Thriller Series stand on their own and can be read in any order, the publication sequence is:

The Bucharest Dossier
The Bucharest Legacy

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
• Release date: Jun 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781608095698

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Bucharest, Romania

April 1993

IT WAS A night like any other night he had known in Bucharest, only more so. Three years after the revolution that was supposed to have brought relief to the millions of poor wretches, the city still resembled a celestial black hole rather than a European capital. Other than the central area of the city, the streets still stood in darkness, due partly to lack of fuel and partly to the broken bulbs and smashed lampposts that still awaited replacement or repair. Not much had changed in the past three years. Cousin Irina, the diva actress, had been right. It would take a generation.

So much for revolutions.

But this night the darkness acted as a friend to Bill Hefflin. Even though Romania now classified itself as a democracy and the streets no longer crawled with Securitate, former dictator Ceausescu’s secret police, Bucharest had become a cauldron of foreign security forces, racketeers, thieves, and roaming gangs that vied for territory. He had been warned. Still, the days of Cold War espionage were over. Romania was now a U.S. ally, and Russia was beginning to shed its own communist history with the election of Boris Yeltsin.

The defector he was to meet was supposedly KGB, but this was no classic exfiltration. All Hefflin had to do was drive him to the American embassy, babysit him for a few hours, then place him on one of the American military airplanes, which the friendly Romanian government now allowed to land—and depart—on a regular basis. The Agency had asked him for this favor since he had already planned on returning to Bucharest—his first time back since the revolution—to check on his charitable organizations. They were run by his own teams of American personnel. He didn’t trust the government to manage the money without their skimming off the top.

Why had he accepted this assignment? After all, he was no longer part of the Agency, not since he had become a billionaire overnight thanks to Boris’s recovery of Ceausescu’s offshore bank accounts. Boris, his KGB asset, his mentor, practically his second father. He was amused at how he considered Tanti Bobo, the old Romanian gypsy, his second mother and Boris his second father. How many people were blessed with two sets of parents?

Perhaps he just wanted to replay those days again, for nostalgia’s sake. This was actually the second assignment off the books for the Agency since his resignation. The first one had been a simple pickup of a package from a train station locker in Berlin. He suspected that the Agency was trying to lure him back, to appeal to his nostalgia, which they knew was his weak spot. His life was full of nostalgia, though it had been partially cured by his finding his sweet Pusha.

Truth be told, the Agency was strapped for manpower. Bucharest Station had been downsized since the dissolution of the Soviet Empire, an outpost with few risks and fewer rewards, or so he’d been assured. After the Gulf War, Langley’s eyes were now focused on the Middle East. Postponing his plans for a few days was no big sacrifice, especially since it allowed him to recapture memories of his clandestine work, which, he had to admit, he missed.

This night promised no such intrigue, however, as he sat in an old Dacia on a cold, gloomy April evening in Bucharest. It began to drizzle. Even though there were no adversaries to elude, he didn’t turn on the wipers or the engine, preferring to pretend this was a real operation and thus follow procedure to not divulge his presence. The odds were that the heater of the Dacia wouldn’t work anyway. It was the first thing to go, usually within the first month out of the factory, and had to be repeatedly repaired. He had borrowed the car from among those parked on a side street and planned on returning it at the end of the night. No one would miss it. Gas was still scarce and expensive.

He spotted a shadow at the end of the street, created not by streetlamps, which were dark, but by the light of the full moon. He glanced at his watch, and it read exactly 3:00 a.m.

The defector is punctual. A good sign.

At first the figure was too far away for its footsteps to match the echoes they created, but as the man drew nearer, they began to sync. He wore a dark raincoat and fedora, as if he had copied an old spy movie. Hefflin had seen the phenomenon before: Mafia leaders spoke like Don Corleone, policemen mimicked New York cops seen on TV series, and lovers emulated seduction scenes from classic movies.

Life copies art.

Hefflin flashed his headlights once to announce his presence. The man quickened his pace. It was just as the man approached his car that Hefflin spotted the headlights entering the end of the street.

What the hell?

His body stiffened; his instincts suddenly stirred by the rush of adrenaline that made his fingertips tingle.

Could they have followed the defector? Or me?

He turned on the engine just as the man got in. He intended to back up out of the narrow street, but another car now turned into the other end.

A trap? What the hell?

He sat paralyzed for a moment, unsure of his next move, or the rules of this new game. Did the old rules still apply? Was he now expected to act like an Agency field operative? Did he have that authority? He needed to make a decision.

Get out! he barked at the defector.

Why?

They followed you. Get out!

What are you going to do? The defector sat frozen, his face contorted in horror.

Hefflin jumped out of the car just as he heard the gunshot, the bullet bursting the car windshield.

These guys are serious.

His passenger half fell out of the Dacia, and Hefflin pushed him into the doorway of a building, then turned back and plunged his handkerchief into the opening of the gas tank. As he lit the handkerchief with his lighter, a second shot rang out, this time the bullet hitting the side of the building. He scrambled into the doorway, grabbed the defector, still partly paralyzed with fear, and pulled him inside the building.

The hallway was pitch black; the light bulbs broken. With the aid of his lighter, Hefflin was able to drag the man down the hallway until he found the steps to the basement. At the bottom of the stairs, he pushed through a metal door that led to an alleyway. As they reached the adjacent side street, he heard the explosion. The building windows burst, shards sprayed both Hefflin and the defector and crackled on the cobblestones like fine sleet. A ball of fire hurtled high above the buildings, followed by the cries of men.

He pulled the defector toward a main street where he knew a pay phone stood.

No backup needed, they said. Just a routine pickup, they said. Christ!

He held onto the man’s collar for fear he would panic and flee, then dialed the number he had been given.

Control, a man’s voice answered.

Hefflin spoke his numbered code.

Confirmed, Control said. What is your status?

Pickup compromised.

Your location?

Hefflin gave it to him.

A moment of silence, then, Go to location Alpha 5.

He tried to remember what that meant. He had previously memorized the prearranged pickup spots throughout the city, but that had been three years before, and they were now just a jumble in his brain. Had they even kept the same codes all this time?

Where is Alpha 5?

You are on a non-secure line, Control said.

Look, the operation was blown. Enemy agents are swarming in the area. Now tell me the fucking rendezvous point!

There was silence, then Control gave him the intersection of two streets.

Hefflin hung up and dragged the defector onward at a clip.

Where are you taking me? the man gasped. Though he was tall and slim, the man now hunched down, his clean-shaven face twisted in fear, like a WWII prisoner being dragged to some Nazi camp.

A pickup point, Hefflin said. The embassy entrance will be crawling with KGB, if that’s what these guys were. We’ll never make it inside.

They picked up their pace. The defector seemed calmer now and was able to keep up, his understanding of the situation having probably eased his fears. Blaring sirens rose to a pitch, followed by fire trucks passing by the main boulevard, then faded again.

How much farther? the defector asked. He was beginning to pant.

A few more blocks that way. Hefflin pointed with his chin, one of the Romanian gestures he automatically reacquired after arriving in his country of birth. The truth was he wasn’t sure of the location. He hadn’t been in Bucharest in over three years and then only for a few weeks. But the streets sounded familiar from his childhood.

A few minutes later, they reached their destination, a small square where several streets converged. He checked the street signs to make sure. This was the spot. Now where the hell was the Agency team? Then he spotted two cars, idling on different side streets, each with four men inside.

How the hell do they know this pickup location? Were they listening on the phone line?

Another car now approached the square, two men inside. The license plates were of the special format reserved for embassy vehicles. It slowed down to a crawl, the men searching every street corner.

Is that our car? the defector asked, the pitch of his voice raised in fear.

The other two cars turned on their headlights and burst toward them.

It’s too late. It’s been spotted.

What are you saying? The car is right there. What are we waiting for?

You want to come out of this alive? Then do as I say. He grabbed the defector and pushed him down the dark street away from the square.

Where are you taking me?

Look, the pickup is blown. This has now turned into an exfiltration. I have to get you off the streets. He didn’t know any of the Agency safe houses in Bucharest, but he thought of one apartment, if it was still available. A long shot. He dragged the defector along like a parent pulling his child toward the doctor’s office.

We had a perfectly good car in front of us and you refused to take it, the defector complained. Hefflin remained silent and just kept tugging him along.

They reached their destination twenty minutes later. The building felt familiar, though Hefflin had only been there once, in ’89. All the windows were dark, as expected in the middle of the night. The front door was locked. Hefflin removed two pieces of metal from the lining of his jacket collar—a remnant from his old days—inserted them into the keyhole, and gently worked them. A moment later he heard the click.

Inside it was pitch black. With his lighter he found the stairs and they slowly climbed to the second floor. He wondered if someone else was living in that apartment now. It had been three years, after all.

Hefflin knelt and used the same instruments to pick the lock to the apartment. As he silently pushed open the door, the smell of stale cigarettes engendered a warm, familiar feeling. By the moonlight he could make out the piano, the Tiffany-style lamps, the red Persian rug. The place had survived unchanged.

He signaled the defector to remain silent, then quietly made his way through the apartment. He hadn’t realized how large it was. Besides the living room there were three bedrooms, one of which had been turned into a study, a large kitchen, and a formal dining room where his family’s mahogany dining set still stood.

No one seemed to be living in the apartment. A thick layer of dust covered the tables and windowsills. The authorities had forgotten about this place. Many dossiers had been pilfered and burned during the revolution and, apparently, so had the government listing of Boris’s apartment.

When he returned to the living room, he found the defector sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette.

You lit a cigarette? There might have been someone in here. Hefflin seethed.

Whose place is this? the defector asked. A high-ranking official, by the looks of it.

An old friend. Hefflin picked up the phone receiver but found no dial tone. At least the telephone department realized no one had paid the bill.

We’ll spend a few hours here, until I decide how to bring you in, Hefflin said. Hopefully, the KGB will give up searching for you, if that’s who they were.

This exfiltration is becoming a catastrophe. The defector raised his voice. You don’t understand. I have vital information, critical to the survival of your agency. You cannot treat me like this.

Critical to the Agency’s survival? Does the Agency know this?

I told them, but seeing how things are turning out, they apparently did not take me seriously. They sent an amateur.

The defector put out his cigarette in the ashtray and stood. I hope this bungled operation is not typical of the CIA. And you should use the proper term. The KGB no longer exists. The foreign intelligence service is now the SVR. He stomped into one of the bedrooms and slammed the door.

It will always be the KGB for me.

Hefflin lit a cigarette as his eyes drifted to the antique dining room set that Hefflin had grown up with and that his father had sold to Boris when the family had emigrated from Romania. It still stood in Boris’s old apartment, shrouded by memories of his childhood that hung like cobwebs.

CHAPTER TWO

Bucharest

1966

HE HID UNDER the table, the embroidered tablecloth that hung down almost to the floor making him practically invisible. There he would play with his toys until he heard the footsteps, the women’s voices, and saw the painted toenails that would pass by his hideout—red, pink, orange, like lollipops. The women would enter the last room, his father’s office, and the moans would soon begin, low and deep, quickly followed by high-pitched screams. His mother told him not to pay any attention to them, that the women were sick and his father was making them well. He hummed to himself so he wouldn’t hear those agonizing cries, while continuing to play with his toys.

After some time had passed, the doors would open and his mother would come out pushing a metal cart on wheels. On top of it lay a shiny basin from which protruded several long, metal instruments. She’d roll the basin to the kitchen then return to his father’s office and accompany the woman out. Sometimes his mother made coffee for the woman and they’d sit at the table under which he hid, the painted toenails almost touching him.

But this one particular afternoon, a few minutes after the woman left their apartment, he heard a pounding at the door. For a brief moment his parents stood frozen, silent, as if they could pretend no one was home. Then his mother raced to close the kitchen door where she’d rolled the metal cart with the shiny basin.

When his father opened the front door, he saw three policemen in uniform.

His parents stood aside while the policemen walked directly to his father’s office as if they knew exactly where to go. When they opened the door, he could see bloody sheets on the floor. Another policeman rolled out the shiny basin from the kitchen, then lifted one of the long instruments, its tip red with blood.

Doctor, I have to inform you that you are under arrest, the policeman said.

His mother burst into tears. His father kissed her, hugged him, then put on his jacket and walked out with the policemen. After a while his mother stopped crying and started cleaning the office and washing all the instruments.

His father returned two hours later and said they just had him fill out some forms, then told him to return in three days for a hearing. His mother said they needed a lawyer. How about Trent, the lawyer who lived downstairs? His father shrugged. What was Trent going to do? The evidence was all there.

Three days later his father put on his coat, kissed him and his mother, and walked out. Several hours later his father returned wearing a big smile.

A most extraordinary thing happened, his father said. Trent and I are standing before the judge, the prosecutor is ready to present his case, when a man I’ve never seen before walks into the courtroom. He has the bearing of someone important. He goes straight up to the judge, whispers something in his ear, and the judge’s face grows pale. The man then just turns around and walks out. The next moment the judge pounds the gavel and says, ‘Case dismissed due to insufficient evidence.’ The prosecutor stands up to object that he hasn’t even presented his case yet, but the judge is already walking back to his chambers. And that was it.

His mother dropped into a chair and crossed herself three times. Miracles can happen even in communist Romania.

CHAPTER THREE

Bucharest

April 1993

THE MEMORY HAD come as a flash, a mote of time. His father was never bothered by the police again. No one ever spoke of that incident, as if it had never happened. From the intel that later passed his desk, he learned that all forms of contraception had been outlawed in Romania during Ceausescu’s reign. The dictator had wanted to increase the Romanian population, but birth rates continued to plummet. No one wanted to bring up children in that cauldron of hell. Abortion, though illegal, had become the only option, a routine in every woman’s life. He remembered that his cousin Irina had once told him that she had had twenty-two abortions that she could remember. Twenty-two, and she was still in the prime of life. He wondered what the faithful in America would say to that.

Hefflin placed the gun on the night table of the second bedroom and stretched out on the bed. He needed to concentrate on the mess he was in, and figure out how to get this insolent defector out of the country. How had everything gone so wrong? The KGB knew the location of the pickup as well as the alternate rendezvous points. The Agency had preset rescue sites throughout Bucharest, the choice based on proximity. Whoever blew this operation, it wasn’t an accident.

He slept for a couple of hours like a baby, meaning that he woke up every few minutes, his nightmares replaying the events of that night. When he woke up for the last time, he heard movement in the apartment. He picked up his gun and slowly opened the door. The noise emanated from the kitchen—footsteps and sounds of clanging china. When he reached the door, gun in hand, he found the defector sitting at the kitchen table sipping from a cup.

I found some Russian tea, old, but drinkable, the defector said. He was fully dressed in a wrinkled, oversized gray suit and gray tie—the uniform of the communist apparatchiks.

Hefflin reinserted his gun in the small of his back, sprinkled some tea in a cup from the open can, and poured some hot water from the steaming kettle.

What plans have you come up with? the defector asked. There will be SVR at the airports, train stations, and borders. I do not look forward to a jab of ricin from an umbrella.

The Russian was referring to Georgi Ivanov Markov, a Bulgarian dissident who had been murdered by the Bulgarian Secret Service with an umbrella that shot a pellet containing ricin, a deadly poison.

No airports or train stations, Hefflin said. I’m betting they expect us to drive to Hungary.

The defector smirked. With what car? You blew up the nice one we had.

Hefflin felt the urge to smack the arrogant little prick across the mouth, but elected to finish his tea.

I’ll be back in a few minutes, Hefflin said. Just be ready to hop into the car.

The defector spread his arms. As you can see, I am ready now.

Clean up the place before you go, including the kitchen. He said goodbye to Boris’s prized apartment and the years of memories hiding in its shadows, which Hefflin wished he could garner for himself. Wait inside the doorway downstairs. When you see me pull up, jump in.

"Da, da, I know the routine."

Hefflin returned forty minutes later sitting in the back seat of a white Skoda, two men in front. The defector opened the back door and got in.

Who are these men? the defector asked, as if insulted that strangers had been involved in the operation without his approval.

Friends of ours, Hefflin said. Hungarians.

Balzary? The defector’s voice rose.

You know Balzary?

The Hungarian chief of station? Everyone knows him. A wonderful man. Too good for this shithole of a country.

Hefflin bit his lip. This is my shithole of a country, you KGB scum.

At least you found a newer car this time, the Russian added. Please do not blow it up again.

So this is your package. The driver smirked. He had a Romanian accent. You should teach him some manners.

I’m just the babysitter, Hefflin said. Just get us to your embassy in one piece.

No problem. The driver chuckled.

Hefflin had called Balzary, his friend from the days of the revolution and a fellow Harvard alum. He had decided to avoid the American embassy now that the operation had been compromised, and the KGB was on the alert for them. They would probably be watching it, maybe even with snipers.

I’m in the middle of a blown operation, Hefflin had told Balzary from a pay phone. Need immediate pickup.

Balzary hadn’t asked any questions. A team met Hefflin a half hour later and drove back to Boris’s apartment to pick up the defector. Balzary’s immediate reaction didn’t surprise Hefflin, for the Hungarian had proven his friendship during the revolution, even saving his life from a Middle Eastern sniper.

They now drove mostly via side streets, avoiding traffic, which was beginning to pick up now that the sun was rising. The Hungarian embassy was about twenty minutes away, and he worried that they would be intercepted. He didn’t know how many personnel the KGB had devoted to stopping this defector, or if they had paid off the local police to be on the lookout for them.

When they turned onto Strada Georges Clemenceau and passed by the Romanian Athenaeum, a warmth spread over him. He remembered his parents bringing him to the famed concert hall as a child, when he had been so captivated by the beauty of the building that he hardly heard the orchestra. Opened in 1888, the neoclassical structure was designed by the French architect Albert Galleron. Ionic columns guarded the entrance, a circular dome hovered above the hall like a halo, frescos depicting important events in Romanian history covered its internal walls, and an expanse of marble, upon which he would slide, formed the floors. The building radiated an image of a Greek temple.

As they sped down Strada Rosetti, his memory already fading, they passed a car with two men parked on the side of the road, then, an instant, in which Hefflin made eye contact with the driver. The car screeched and followed. Within minutes a second car burst out of a side street and blocked the road. Balzary’s man veered onto the sidewalk, then took a sudden turn into another side street. The two cars followed.

Don’t worry. I’m a native of this city, the driver yelled.

Ahead, Hefflin now saw a boulevard with traffic going in both directions—the early morning commute. Their driver stepped on the gas.

What are you doing—are you crazy? the defector cried.

Their car plunged through the traffic, over the divider, and into the oncoming lanes. Automobiles screeched to a halt, some sliding into each other, others crashing into parked cars.

Ha! Our car has steel-belted tires, the driver yelled, and a supercharged engine.

Hefflin saw the two cars following them try the same maneuver. One crashed into an oncoming car and the other stopped before it reached the boulevard. They now took another turn the wrong way down a one-way street, but another car appeared at the other end. Balzary’s man flashed his lights. The oncoming car accelerated toward them.

Where the fuck did he come from? the driver cursed. Put your heads down. The body is bulletproof, but the windows are not.

He accelerated toward the oncoming car, a game of chicken. At the last moment they veered onto the sidewalk. As the two cars passed each other, the driver and his sidekick slouched down into their seats. Hefflin pushed the defector flat in the back seat and covered him with his own body. Three shots rang out. The side windows burst; shards sprinkled Hefflin’s back.

We’re a block away, the driver called out. Hold on. It’ll be a short landing.

Hefflin raised his head enough to see the gates of the embassy held open by Hungarian security men. Then Hefflin spotted it, another car speeding perpendicular to theirs, aiming to T-bone them. Balzary’s man accelerated, heading straight for the open gate. The other car barreled toward them, ten feet away now. Just as their car entered the gate, the other car swished by them and pulled off their rear bumper. The tires shrieked, their car twisted, slid sideways, and came to a stop a few inches from a wall.

I told you it would be a short landing, the driver said with a chuckle. All in one piece?

Aberjan Balzary awaited with open arms and a bottle of tsuika, the traditional plum brandy of Romanians and Hungarians.

I don’t want to know how you fucked up your operation or even what kind of operation it was, Balzary declared. And I certainly don’t want to know if it had anything to do with that explosion, which woke up half of Bucharest a couple of hours ago and sent two KGB operatives to the hospital.

Good, because I couldn’t tell you anyway, Hefflin said. How the hell are you going to get us to the airport is the question.

Easy. Nobody messes with official embassy cars, especially those carrying military brass. Your people should have thought of that.

I was told it was a babysitting operation, Hefflin smirked.

No such thing in this country, even if it’s an ally now, Balzary said. And your Bucharest station is barely able to keep up. They’re depending more than ever on our service, but that’s another story. We’ll need another time to catch up.

Balzary ordered two military uniforms and two diplomatic passports to be created. Within a couple of hours Hefflin and the defector were sporting the uniforms of Hungarian colonels while riding in an official Hungarian embassy limousine with flags flaring, being driven to Otopeni Airport. Hefflin had decided to return to Langley with the defector to figure out how this operation had been so badly blown. They were waved through passport check and boarded the American military plane without further incident. As the plane took off, Hefflin had to admit that he owed Balzary yet another favor.

CHAPTER FOUR

New York

April 1993

THE BURNING WOOD in the fireplace crackled like distant fireworks. Although it was early April, a late-season cold spell had settled over New York. They had fallen asleep on the floor after making love the night before upon Boris’s mink coat, their traditional love nest. The fire still warmed Hefflin’s skin, almost burning it. Or maybe it was his own internal embers that always blazed in Catherine’s presence.

Catherine had let her dark hair grow longer now, unlike when he had first met her at Harvard, though she still wore her eyeliner in the Cleopatra style whenever she desired to make love. Her body glistened in the light of the fire, her skin smooth as velvet, hairless except for that one triangle below her bikini line that she left unshaved—her signature, she called it. As Hefflin gazed at Catherine’s serene face, he wondered how someone could be so beautiful and interesting. How did she feel to be admired and lusted-after wherever she went, to have such power over men, and to know it from a young age? Why hadn’t it created a narcissist or a hedonist? All right, perhaps she was a bit of a hedonist, but he loved that about her.

Her lips now widened into a smile. I can feel your eyes on me even in my sleep.

You’re awake. How sneaky of you.

I’m still a spy, you know—just taking an extended maternity leave. She opened her eyes and pulled him on top of her. She gave him a long kiss then, as he tried to caress her breasts, pushed him aside.

It’s morning. She stretched, then let out a high-pitched cry. If we start again, we’ll be playing on Uncle’s mink all day.

He smiled at her little French accent. So? We have nowhere to go.

"You may not, chéri, but I have a young boy to take care of."

Jack will be fine with Yvette.

"Jacques needs his mother, not a nanny. She kissed him again. I hope he doesn’t want to be a spy. I couldn’t go through life worrying, like I did with you for the past two days."

He lay back down next to her. That sure was a botched operation.

"From what you tell me, you acted marvelously. It’s when the merde hits the fan that you recognize the great field agents."

Maybe I spiced up the story to make myself look good in your eyes, he said.

No, you’re too honest, at least with me, and too ready to take the blame. There was a security breach. They were waiting for you at the pickup point.

That will set the Agency’s hair on fire. I’m glad I’m no longer part of it.

She rested her jaw in her palm, her eyes focused on his. I know you don’t mean that. You miss it. Last night you made love like you had been rejuvenated.

She was right. The exfiltration, despite its having been blown by some security breach, or because of it, had ignited his craving to reengage with the Agency. It had been his only spiritual home before Catherine. Maybe it still was.

So, I gather you didn’t have a chance to look around Bucharest, no other fact-finding? she asked.

The plan was to place the defector on the plane and then spend a few days in the city. But fate had other things in store for me.

It was a silly idea, anyway, she said. Your father and mother were your real parents. I saw how much they loved you, how they doted on you, spoiled you. She let out a laugh. Your crazy notion that Tanti Bobo was your real mother is, well … crazy.

No crazier than finding my little Pusha at Harvard, he said. No crazier than Boris, my KGB asset, being her ‘uncle.’

His little Pusha, the love of his childhood whom he had left behind when he and his parents had emigrated from Romania, now lay beside him in the form of Catherine, a mondaine who had grown up in Parisian high society. It never failed to amaze him.

You have a fixation, a neurosis. She nuzzled him.

"The story is a bit strange, don’t you think? Tanti Bobo gets pregnant at the same time as my mother, then she’s ostracized by her clan because her lover is a non-gypsy, a gadjo. They burn all her clothes, her name can’t be spoken in the clan, any memory of her is erased among her people, and then her father steals the baby. It doesn’t figure."

He grew sentimental.

No, not a man who declares his daughter dead to him.

She laid her head back down. You’ll never let this go until you find out for sure. Sooner or later, you’ll have to go back and find that gypsy clan.

"The Mandale clan, in the Kaldaresh tribe. It can’t be that difficult."

They’re nomads. Who knows where they are now.

If I set my mind to it, I’ll find them, he said.

If you set your mind to it, you can do anything, Catherine said. But you’re afraid.

He remained silent, considering.

Well, I always think it’s better to know, good or bad, than to wonder for the rest of your life who your true parents were, she said, then turned over and pinched his arm tenderly. Now let’s get up and do our workout before we play with Jacques.

But he couldn’t take his mind off Tanti Bobo, the gypsy